


Alive among dead

by Ariana (Ariana_El)



Series: The House of Fëanor chronicles [4]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Gen, coping after fight, recovering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-02
Updated: 2019-06-02
Packaged: 2020-04-06 20:09:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19069783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ariana_El/pseuds/Ariana
Summary: A story of Vorindon, Maedhros's friend and second-in-command.Takes place after the feral treating with Morgoth that resulted in Maedhros's captivity.





	Alive among dead

**Author's Note:**

> This story is certainly connected with the serie, as it concerns one of my OCs, Vorindon - a friend of Maedhros, later his second-in-command.  
> Prompt filled: survivor's guilt

**Alive among dead**

 

The horse that fell on him saved his life, but Vorindon learned that many days later. In the last moments of consciousness, before the darkness overcame him, he saw Morgoth’s fiery demons making their way through Maedhros’s thinning defences. It was pointless to shout in the midst of the battle, to tell his friend to try and back off. Even if it wasn’t, he wouldn’t have been able to call.

The next thing he remembered was cold, numbness and overwhelming pain. Something was pressing him to the ground, but when he tried to move...

Voices. When came back to his senses again, he could hear voices around him, agitated and nervous, and a rustle of clothes and armour. He couldn’t see, something was on his eyes, but the voices were undeniably elvish, so he made an effort and tried to call. Only a cracked noise came from his dry throat.

Suddenly the voices were just over him. Someone pushed the weight from him, someone called, but along with relief came the pain. Perhaps Vorindon screamed, perhaps he sobbed – darkness swallowed him again.

***

The following days – days? how could one count days without the mingling of the Trees? – were just flashes of pain in the merciful oblivion, where even the worst nightmares could not get him. Someone was helping him to change position, someone gave him water and tended to him, but details vanished in a thick fog.

He couldn’t say how many times he woke like that and fell asleep again, how much time passed between the healers’ visits. But finally Alcarino sat by him and asked if he felt up to a bit of talking, then gave him just pure water instead of the potions that brought the healing sleep. Vorindon tried to follow the healer’s instructions and drank the warm broth he was given, but the growing pain made it hard to focus.

“We need to talk,” said someone, though Vorindon didn’t notice anyone coming in. He needed a moment to match the voice to the face. Maglor. Not Maedhros, Maglor.

Vorindon felt the panic rising as his mind was suddenly full of the images from the slaughter, in which the treating with Morgoth’s envoys had turned. He shut his eyes, trying to focus on the dull pain in his legs and entrails, but the images would not leave him. Weapons clinging, a scream of a friend as he fell beside him, Maedhros shouting orders, chaos, blood and-

“Voro, don’! Don’t do this!”

Someone held him down firmly. Vorindon opened his eyes and saw Maglor leaning over him. He could still hear the battle, but he was struck by what he saw in the grey eyes of the son of Feanor.

“Makalaure,” he rasped quietly. “What...?”

“I don’t want to disturb your rest, but I have to ask.” Maglor’s hands on his shoulders twitched. “What happened? What do you remember? Tell me.”

Though he said no more, Vorindon could sense the despair hidden in the plea and he was willing to obey, but his voice failed him. His throat was dry and clenched, though Alcarino had just helped him drink. It wasn’t also easy to seek Maglor’s mind when his own was so foggy. Finally the singer reached for him and helped him connect. The memories were chaotic – scraps of images and emotions, screams and that growing awareness that they fell into a trap with no escape route...

Maglor’s thin fingers clenched on Vorindon’s shoulders with such a force that Vorindon let out a muffled moan.

“Russandol?” He risked a question, though Maglor’s presence itself was an answer.

“Captured, or that’s what we were told.” The singer’s voice was dead and Vorindon shivered; he had known Maglor since he was a child and he knew Maglor never hid his feelings. “I was hoping you could tell me more.”

“He was alive... He fought...” Vorindon closed his eyes, trying to calm his racing heart. “Others?” he whispered with hope.

“No one survived,” replied Maglor numbly and removed his hands. He jumped to his feet and left.

Vorindon stared at the tent above his head, trying to come to terms with the news he had heard. He had no reason not to believe Maglor, but it meant...

“Don’t think about it now, Vorindon. Not now.” Alcarino placed his hands on the burning cheeks of the wounded and smeared something wet on them. Only after a moment did Vorindon realise it was his own tears.

“Is it truth?” he asked, his voice breaking. “Russo? All of them?”

“You alone were found alive,” nodded the healer sadly. “Moringotto’s envoys demanded impossible things for Nelyafinwe’s release.”

Alcarino didn’t take his hands away. He kept moving his thumbs along Vorindon’s cheeks and wiping the tears away as the wounded wept. All dead, all of them, and Maedhros... Who knew, perhaps he had met fate worse than death? So many... His thoughts scattered, unfinished, disappearing in the clinging of the weapons, leaving only the feeling of ubiquitous dread.

***

Maglor never came again. The longer Vorindon lied in the damn tent, the more he realised how many friends he had lost in that trap. Scarcely anybody came to see him aside from the healers; everyone was busy fortifying the camp and building shelters that would last longer than the tents. But even here there was this feeling of dread and misery; they had lost thee High Kings in a very short time. Vorindon was told that Maglor had taken the lead, but refused to pick the title as well; it still belonged to Maedhros, at least until the news of his death would be confirmed.

Finally gone were the long dark days when Vorindon dwelled almost alone. His broken legs healed and slowly, weak and wobbly like a child, the wounded started going outside. He limped with one of the healers, more and more frustrated by the stiffness and unsteadiness of his legs. He couldn’t chase off the feeling that he would never regain his strength despite what the healers’ assurances that it would all come back with time. But worse than the weakness were idleness and loneliness, which brought to his mind all those he would never see again.

Alcarino found a cure for that too and asked him for help. The healers needed a steady supply of herbs that had proved to be effective against the Enemy’s poisons. Before Vorindon knew it, he was digging even rows along with the other elves and cared for the plants, which didn’t want to grow in this lightless world. Slowly he made new acquaintances and learned the new life in the camp. As his strength returned, he participated in the daily life.

The healers were right in the end. Vorindon regained his abilities. However, it turned out that it was much easier to learn how to walk again than how to remain alive among so many dead.

 

 


End file.
